Not Another First Time Story
Lessons From a Young Drug Dealer
I was poor and couldn’t pay rent, so I started selling weed
When I was in college, everyone really liked Weeds. It had just come out and it was kind of groundbreaking — a suburban widow, complete with perfectly imperfect hair and a seemingly endless closet full of Going Out tops, driving a Range Rover and selling pot.
Whenever someone in class talked about it, I rolled my eyes. I knew there was no way she was making a living — in a posh suburb, no less — on dimebags sold to PTA moms.
I knew exactly how much money you could make selling weed because I had been doing it. And, frankly, it wasn’t a lot. But, hoo boy, was it a lot of trouble.
The first time I sold a $20 of Vancouver’s finest hay-stinking pot, I went to some guy’s apartment. A friend had texted the guy my number. Then, the guy called to give me his address.
“You can just text me next time,” I said.
“I don’t want to get arrested,” he said.
“Well, don’t text ‘HEY I NEED POT.’ Like, be normal about it,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. And gave me his address.
